The End

The harrowing final miles of a marathon are a whole new race.

Forever—that sounds about right. In New York last November, my calves started to twinge around mile 18. My gastrocnemius muscles were firing independently of the rest of my body, like they were getting all jumpy before trying to make a break for it. By the time I re-entered Manhattan, at mile 21, I was running on my heels like Charlie Chaplin because my contorted calves wouldn't relax enough to let me flex my foot. If I stopped to stretch, I'd never make it in by 3:30, my Boston Marathon qualifying time, but if I didn't stop to stretch, I'd collapse by the curb with paralyzed legs. I made a deal with myself: I'd only stretch out my calves when I actually screamed in pain. So I climbed Fifth Avenue toward the park in half-mile increments, stopping for a refreshing bellow and stretch every five minutes, eventually stumbling through the finish line in 3:27:01. Shuffling to the gear-check area, I was assisted by a 12-year-old girl who said her name was Elsie. I walked with her through the trees of the park, and reader, I swear to you, I honestly thought she was an angel, and that I had died, and I honestly didn't mind.

Still, that experience raises the question of why so many of us even put ourselves in the position of having to bear down for the Last Six after crossing that 20-mile barrier. Simple. I own that New York finish, although I'd never want to experience it again—just as I never want to relive the desperate sprint for my PR in Chicago in '06, when my left hamstring had cramped so badly I felt I'd been shot by a fan of a rival radio program.

But at the same time, I'll be lining up again in Chicago this October, and I'll be committing myself to a good solid hour of misery at the end of the affair, in the same way you commit yourself to getting wet when you leap off a diving board.

Why go through it all again? Because what lies between mile 20 and the finish line is the answer to that question asked by nonmarathoning spouses and friends: "If it hurts so much, why do you do it?" I've never found the answer, so I keep running that final stretch with my eyes on the ground looking for it.

What I have found is that the last six miles separate distance runners from those who are merely obsessive or have a high tolerance for boredom. They are the crucible from which come molten, freshly recast marathoners, and each one of those miles is a distinct trial to conquer, and reason to train, and reason to boast, and as such, in truth, I love them, because though you'll never know exactly why you do them, it's over those last six miles that you finally find out if you can.